Be Somebody to Someone
by devirnis
Summary: Marcus and Anya get married. Baird and Sam figure their shit out. Modern AU.


**[A/N]** This was supposed to be PWP and then I wrote 15k words. Help.

* * *

**Be Somebody to Someone**

When Marcus asked Baird to meet him for lunch, Baird had immediately started to panic. He and Marcus don't _do lunch_—not just the two of them, anyway. Usually it's half their unit who ends up crammed into a small diner near the base, but they tip well so the staff are always happy to see them roll in. The smallest their lunches have ever been is the three of them: Baird, Cole and Marcus. Never just Baird and Marcus. Marcus doesn't do one-on-one lunches anymore, not since Dom—

Anyway. After accepting the invitation, Baird assumed the worst. Marcus obviously had some bad news to break. He had a terminal illness. He and Anya had broken up. He was getting deployed again. Something horrible and life-shattering, surely. Otherwise why the hell would he want to spend quality time with Baird of all people, when Cole could have been there with them to fill any awkward silences?

It's not bad news, as it turns out. It's something that Baird would have never even considered as a possibility.

"You're serious?" Baird says after Marcus finishes talking, unable to believe what he's heard.

In response, Marcus gives him a withering frown. The fact that the glower comes from behind a club sandwich makes it no less intimidating. "Did I stutter or something?"

_No, but I could have sworn you just asked me to be your best man._

But, as Baird thinks about it, maybe the request isn't really that surprising. He's sure he's not Marcus's first choice—that would have been Dom, of course, but the less Baird thinks about that, the better. After Dom, Baird is the logical next best thing. He and Marcus were growing closer towards their last tour, once Baird started getting over himself and stopped holding a grudge over a promotion that was never going to happen to him in a million years.

Baird realizes Marcus is still waiting for a response and jolts. "Yes! I mean, um, yeah. That'd be—it's an honour—"

Marcus frowns again, and Baird snaps his mouth shut. Neither of them are particularly good with feelings, so it's probably best to act like this conversation didn't just blindside him. Baird nods once, signalling an end to his embarrassing spluttering, and takes a deep breath.

"So, when's the big day?"

* * *

"Maid of honour?" Sam echoes, just to make sure she'd hearing things right.

Anya nods, smiling. "Yes. Bernie's already agreed to be a bridesmaid, and Colonel Hoffman is going to give me away, so I'd hoped—"

Sam cuts Anya off as she throws her arms around the other woman in a tight hug. "Of course I'll be your maid of honour! You don't even have to ask!"

But when Anya pulls away from the embrace, her expression is almost sheepish. "There's just one thing."

"Oh?"

"Marcus is going to ask Baird to be his best man."

"Oh."

Damon Baird makes things complicated. Sam hasn't known him as long as she's known Anya; they've only been based out of the same base for about a year, in the same unit for a couple of months, after Marcus's whole squad was transferred. (Sam had read the reports; everyone had, before the new guys arrived. It was awful, what had happened at the end of their last tour.) Marcus and Anya had been long distance for years and so Sam had heard plenty about him and his friends, even met Marcus on Skype a few times. Meeting the rest in person had been… interesting. Augustus Cole, former star quarterback before he enlisted, was exactly as she expected: warm, outgoing, an instant friend. Baird, on the other hand…

She'd been warned he was a bit of a dick. _"A bit of"_ turned out to be the understatement of the century. After nearly punching him in the face during their first introduction, Sam couldn't understand how someone like Cole could be friends—best friends, allegedly—with a whacker like Baird. Anya had apologized profusely, trying to explain that Baird wasn't _always_ like that… once you got to know him.

But it's not Baird's sarcastic, antisocial, somewhat misogynistic personality that's the problem.

It's the fact that Sam's had a massive crush on him basically since day one.

(Her mother always said she had terrible taste in men.)

She's tried to get over it, she really has. There's plenty about Baird that should turn her off: he can be cruel and cutting, he always thinks he's the smartest person in the room, he clearly has some very backwards ideas about female soldiers, and doesn't seem to have any kind of filter between his brain and his mouth. But no matter how much she tries to focus on the negatives, it doesn't stop her stomach from swooping every time he walks into a room. She's attracted to him, annoyingly, and it's just so much _fun_ to rile him up and then leave before he can get in the last word. Plus he's a looker, and she can't help but fantasize about putting that obnoxious mouth of his to better use—when she doesn't want to strangle him.

It probably says something about her that she conflates irritation with attraction, but Sam's in no mood to go down that weird, confusing emotional path anytime soon.

Sam waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever. We can be civil. I promise I won't kill him until you guys leave for your honeymoon."

Anya just laughs.

* * *

Marcus, the bastard, doesn't tell Baird about Sam until the four of them go out for dinner to discuss the wedding itinerary.

Anya and Sam are already seated at the table when Marcus and Baird arrive at the restaurant. (They carpooled from the base; Baird never passes up an opportunity to ride in Marcus's Camaro.) Baird shoots Marcus an alarmed look when he spots Sam—but Marcus doesn't even acknowledge it, just goes to sit beside his fiancée like the traitor he is.

Baird doesn't dislike Sam. Not really. She's part of his unit now, which means he'd take a bullet for her without a second thought, but they're not exactly friends. She's just such a _bitch_. She gets under Baird's skin like no one he's ever met before, pushes all his buttons, and generally leaves him frustrated and fuming. But she's Anya's best friend and she's somehow bonded with Cole, so Baird is stuck with her for the foreseeable future.

He's distantly aware of the objective fact that she's gorgeous, so that helps a bit. A _bit_.

It's only a four-person table so Baird has no choice but to sit next to Sam. She gives him a smirk as he drops into the chair beside her, and he has to resist the urge to kick her under the table. Come on, he can do this. He can put aside his dignity and pride and make nice with Sam for once in his life.

After the waiter takes their orders, Anya pulls a list out of her bag. "We just want to thank you both again for agreeing to do this. It really means a lot to us."

Baird and Sam both smile. They both seem to have decided that the best way to avoid a fight is to say as little as possible. It can't be that bad, right? They only have to tolerate each other for a couple months, and then after the wedding is over they can go back to insults and snide comments.

Marcus and Anya go over the schedule—well, Anya does most of the talking, but that's nothing new. (What _is_ new and a little off-putting is the almost lovesick expression Marcus gives Anya throughout lunch. Not that it would look lovesick to the casual observer, but Baird's known the guy for half a decade.) It's all pretty standard stuff: the ceremony and the reception at the same venue, a cocktail hour between the two big events, a catered dinner, yadda yadda yadda. The happy couple does decide to skip on any speeches or pre-dinner cutesy programming, thank god. Baird would gouge his eyes out if he had to sit through the newlywed shoe game.

"And you'll both be happy to know," Marcus adds, "that you won't be expected to lead the first guests' dance."

"Thank Christ," Baird mutters.

Sam kicks his shin under the table. Baird just manages to avoid swearing out loud, and turns a razor-sharp smile on her.

_Bitch._

* * *

Since there are only four other people in the wedding party, Anya and Marcus let the bridesmaids and groomsmen pick out their own outfits.

It's a massive mistake.

Cole and Bernie go behind their backs and make an appointment at a formalwear store for all four of them. Sam's just getting out of her car in the parking lot when she spots a familiar blonde head of hair walking towards the store entrance.

_Great._

Sam wasn't really looking forward to an afternoon of dress shopping, and the prospect of doing it with Baird is even less thrilling. There's something about trying on dresses that's always brought her insecurities right to the surface. Bernie and Cole are understanding and supportive, but Baird… It'll be a miracle if she doesn't deck him before the end of the day. Still, she can put on a brave face and maybe annoy him enough that he'll be too mad to pick up on her discomfort.

"Hey, dickhead!" she shouts, locking her car. Best to come out of the gate swinging.

Baird whips around. His expression hardens behind his blue-tinted aviators. But he does stay in place until Sam reaches him, so that's something. "Cole didn't tell me this was going to be a group outing," he says when she's in earshot.

"Yeah, Bernie didn't mention that either. So glad I cleared my schedule for this."

Baird snorts. "What could you possibly have had going on today?"

Sam bristles. "I had a date today, thank you very much."

It's… sort of true. One of the trainers from her kickboxing studio finally asked her out. Sam had been anticipating it for a while and figured she could at least give it a chance, even if she is hung up on someone else. But her texting leading up to the date had been less than enthusiastic—she couldn't muster the energy for social niceties since she wasn't that interested to begin with. And she hadn't really felt bad about needing to rain check coffee to go dress shopping, and that was a few days ago and he hadn't texted her back since she cancelled… and Sam doesn't really care, which sort of gives her an answer, doesn't it?

Sam pushes open the door before Baird can get another snippy comment in and sighs in relief when she sees Bernie and Cole are already here. At least the buffers are already in place, and it looks like Cole and Bernie have already pulled a few outfits for them to try. Baird makes a beeline straight for his best friend and Sam can't help the way her gaze is drawn to his backside. Even in ill-fitting, grease-stained jeans, the man still has a great ass.

The first hour or so passes without incident, other than the occasional barb traded between Baird and Sam—but for them, that's downright _polite_. The trouble comes when Bernie and Cole settle on their outfits: the shade of Cole's green tie compliments the similar colour of Bernie's dress. Anya did say that it didn't matter if their outfits were coordinated—there are no wedding colours or anything—but Sam can't deny that a bridesmaid and a groomsman matching looks good.

Which is unfortunate, because the dress that Sam feels most comfortable in doesn't go _at all_ with the blue bowtie Baird's picked out.

_Of course_ he would pick blue. Sam doesn't even know why she's surprised. Just... did it have to be such a pastel blue?

Sam prefers darker colours. Easier to blend in that way. But brighter colours—like Baird's goddamn favourite shade of blue—make her feel like she sticks out like a sore thumb. She knows it's just her insecurities, nobody really cares what colour of dress she wears, but she'd be lying if she wasn't hoping that she could buy a dress that she actually _likes_.

Because she's an idiot, she tries to appeal to Baird. She suggests a darker shade for his tie. Predictably, he's an ass about it.

"I like _this_ one," Baird argues. "If I'm going to spend $100 on a bowtie, it's gonna be one I'll wear again, thanks."

"Yeah, and I'd like to spend $400 on a dress that _I_ actually like," Sam counters.

"What does it even matter? Anya said we didn't have to coordinate outfits or anything."

"If Cole and Bernie match, it'll look weird if the best man and maid of honour don't!"

Sam can feel her temper rapidly getting out of hand. Why does he have to be so goddamn _stubborn_? Why can't he just compromise for once in his life?

"We don't. Have. To match." Baird grinds out, the veins on his neck bulging.

"Ugh!" Sam throws her hands up in the air. "You don't know _anything_."

"I know plenty!"

Bernie strategically retreats back into the changing room while Cole looks helplessly between them. "Guys…"

"Oh sorry," Sam growls, "I forgot I was talking to Mr. Fancy-Private-Education."

Baird's face colours and Sam knows she's struck a nerve. She's seen Elinor Lytton Baird on the cover of rag magazines and always wondered why her son would turn to the army for his mechanical engineering degree rather than what is no doubt a healthy trust fund. (So she Googled Baird's family _once_—sue her.) Clearly there's a story there; Baird's normally very careful with giving any information away about his past.

"You—" Baird starts, and then Cole jumps between them.

"Okay!" Cole says, all forced cheer. "Let's everybody calm down. We don't need to make a scene in front of these nice salespeople."

Sam doesn't want to end up being one of those psycho customers whose meltdown goes viral, so she takes a few steadying breaths like her therapist taught her. Baird, to his credit, does bite back whatever insult he was ready to hurl her way—but he grabs the offending bowtie and stalks off towards the cashier, no doubt to pay and leave the ball in her court.

_Bastard,_ Sam thinks vindictively.

Cole shoots her an apologetic look before heading after Baird, probably to try and smooth things over. Once again, Sam wonders how they hell those two are friends. She turns back to the changing stalls and regards the dress she'd picked out, still hanging on the wall. Now that Baird isn't directly in front of her, the thrumming rage under her skin begins to fade.

Anya won't give a toss what they wear; the wedding is more of a formality than anything else. (Anya had confided in Sam that she and Marcus would have been content to simply sign the marriage license at city hall, but Marcus's father was disappointed enough in his son already for joining the army, and having a real wedding seemed to be some sort of attempt at reconciliation.) But now that Cole and Bernie's outfits go together, it would look strange—almost deliberate—for the best man and maid of honour not to follow suit.

Sam sighs. This is about Anya, not about her. No one will even notice what Sam wears—not in person, not in wedding pictures. Everyone will be focused on the radiant bride. Sam can endure a day of discomfort and a hefty Visa bill for her best friend.

She grabs the dress and goes to inquire about what other shades it comes in.

* * *

**From 'Byrne', Received 6:47 PM**

i think we should call a truce

**To 'Byrne', Sent 7:32 PM**

Admitting defeat so easily?

**From 'Byrne', Received 7:33 PM**

no. but marcus & anya r our friends. we can b nice for them

**To 'Byrne', Sent 8:01 PM**

Fine.

**From 'Byrne', Received 8:05 PM**

ur texting leaves a lot to b desired

**To 'Byrne', Sent 8:42 PM**

Your command of the English language leaves a lot to be desired.

**From 'Byrne', Received 8:42 PM**

ur face leaves a lot to be desired

**From 'Byrne', Received 8:43 PM**

done now. truce officially in effect

**To 'Byrne', Sent 9:50 PM**

Joy.

**From 'Byrne', Received 9:50 PM**

:)

Baird puts his phone facedown beside him on the bed and barely resists the urge to hurl it at the wall. This afternoon was... rough. Looking back on it now, he can grudgingly admit that he was being _slightly_ unreasonable. He hasn't gotten that worked up in a while and honestly thought it was behind him. But Sam's very presence puts him on edge, makes his blood boil, drives him completely fucking _nuts._ He was in a mood before she inadvertently landed on his strained relationship with his family, after she told him about her date that she had to cancel to go shopping.

Come to think of it, that's probably why Sam was testier than usual. She must have been pissed she had to miss out on a date to spend time with Baird. He knows he's not her favourite person; she's never tried to disguise her feelings for him.

But still... Baird promised himself that he'd try to play nice with her. For Marcus. And this afternoon was an epic failure in that regard. All over what—the colour of a tie? He should try to make it up to Sam, for Marcus's sake. The two of them can't be like that every time they're around each other leading up to this wedding.

Baird groans, and picks his phone up again.

**To 'Byrne', Sent 10:02 PM**

Want to make the truce official over drinks? I'll buy.

**From 'Byrne', Received 10:09 PM**

tues nite. rusty nail

**To 'Byrne', Sent 10:10 PM**

Deal.

* * *

The Rusty Nail is the closest bar to base, and as such it's a favourite with the soldiers. It's a bit of a dive bar, but no one gives them weird looks for showing up in army fatigues, and so Baird tolerates it. Makes for a convenient spot to meet if nothing else.

Sam is already there by the time Baird arrives, only five minutes late. She's chatting with Rossi and Carmine at the bar; Baird feels a bolt of annoyance shoot through him. She got here first and could have snagged a table for them, but _no_, talking with her friends that she sees almost every day is apparently more important. He rolls his eyes and stalks over to a table in the corner. Sam can find him when she's done socializing; he's _not_ having this conversation in front of anyone else, thanks. He has the image of a self-righteous prick to maintain.

The waitress comes over and he orders a beer. He takes out his phone and starts to scroll through his notifications when Sam drops into the chair across from him.

_That was fast,_ he thinks, and hopes the surprise doesn't show on his face.

"So," Sam says, grinning. Why is she always grinning? "Am I to take you picking up the tab tonight as an apology?"

Well fuck, he didn't want to _admit it_, but yeah, that was kind of the idea. "Whatever you want to read into it," he answers. It's not an outright denial, which is as close to an actual apology as Sam's ever going to get.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Isn't it exhausting, being a bastard all the time?"

"Only when you're around," he mutters.

"I thought we were discussing a truce," Sam says, sounding tired, "not bickering. We can do that any other time in the year."

She's right, damn it. Maybe if Baird starts making a mental list of all his snappy comebacks, he can unleash them as soon as Marcus and Anya leave for their honeymoon. It's only a few months. He can _do this_. He can be nice.

"Okay. If it's a truce, we need ground rules." Baird pauses to think. "First rule: no deliberately pushing each other's buttons."

Sam sighs dramatically. "But that's just so _fun_."

This. This is why he can't stand her, even if she's beautiful. She's _impossible_.

"Look—" he says, pushing his chair back and getting ready to stand.

"I'm _kidding,_ sit _down_, Jesus. So no deliberately pissing each other off. What happens if we do it unintentionally?"

That's a fair point. It's bound to happen, knowing the two of them. "We'll have a code word that means you back off, with no questions asked."

"Like a _safe word_?" Sam waggles her eyebrows. "Kinky."

Baird ignores the flush that immediately spreads across his face. "Shut up. I'm being serious."

"You're no fun." Sam actually _pouts_ for a second. "Fine, what's a good word? 'Stop'?"

"How about something that will _actually_ make us stop?"

Sam shoots him an unimpressed look. "How about 'lambent' then?"

"Lambent?"

"It's like a light. So it makes sense as a warning to back off."

Baird can't think of anything better at the moment. "Whatever. Good enough."

The waitress comes back with Baird's beer and Sam wastes no time in ordering a fancy cocktail. When the waitress disappears again to ring in the order, Baird squints at Sam suspiciously.

"I thought you always drank beer?"

"I'm branching out," Sam retorts. Like Baird can't see through her plan to squeeze as much money out of him as possible. "So, what are your duties as best man?"

Baird flinches, remembering his desperate Google searches on his phone after the lunch where Marcus asked him. He's never been a best man before—and honestly figured he never would be one—and he really doesn't want to fuck this up.

"Nothing crazy," Baird answers. "Now that we've bought our suits—" Sam rolls her eyes, which he ignores—"I think it's just planning the bachelor party."

"Ha. I don't envy you there. Please tell me you're not going to drag Marcus to a strip club."

Baird can't help but snort. He can vividly imagine Marcus's stony facial expression while getting a lap dance from anyone who isn't Anya. The other guys would love it—Jace, Carmine, Dizzy and Rossi are all on the list—but it would probably be Marcus's worst nightmare.

"Uh, no. I'm thinking more of a pub crawl. Less traumatizing for all involved."

Sam nods. "That... actually sounds like a good idea."

"No need to sound so surprised."

"I was worried Anya would want a tea party or something, but we're going axe throwing."

Now it's Baird's turn to be impressed. "Thank the lord they're not a regular couple."

"Amen to that."

Sam's drink arrives, and Baird can't believe that something with so little substance to it costs twice as much as his pint. It doesn't stop Sam from downing it in under a minute. Baird sighs and wonders how much payback he should be expecting for his performance at the formalwear store.

In the end, Sam lets him off relatively easy. She only orders about $40 worth of cocktails, and even with Baird's few extra pints, he's definitely had more expensive dates.

Not that this is a date—it's not, even if he's paying. It's... it's an apology date. A truce.

It's also the longest that Baird has been one-on-one with Sam since he met her. She's not so terrible, once they've relaxed enough to start to figure each other out. Baird can almost see why Anya and Cole like her. Or maybe that's just the pleasant warmth of the alcohol in his stomach and the fact that her shirt gapes whenever she leans forward.

"I'm sorry, by the way," she says after the waitress returns with their last call orders.

Normally Baird would eagerly take a victory, but he doesn't know what she's referring to. "Sorry for what?"

"For what I said at the store. I clearly landed on a sore spot."

_Oh, that._ "I forget you don't know the backstory," Baird says, going for nonchalant. "Unless Cole's a bigger gossip than I thought."

Sam eyes him, interested. "You want to loop me in? I know we're not exactly mates but if I know, it'll be easier to avoid inadvertently landing on it again."

_Presumptuous._ He should tell her to go to hell, he really should, but the usual venom doesn't come. Weird. Must be the alcohol dulling his senses. Whatever, it's not like it's a big secret or anything – he just doesn't go around blabbing about his family issues to anybody, like Sam probably would.

"My father's a judge and my mother's an investment fund heiress," Baird starts. He tries to sound as disinterested as possible, as if talking about this is boring for him instead of skirting dangerously close to childhood emotional trauma. "They had big plans for their son, but I wanted to study mechanical engineering. I joined the army since my dear old parents weren't going to give me a dime for a degree that I was actually interested in."

He expects mocking laughter, something along the lines of _oh poor little trust fund baby, had to finally work for once in his life instead of having everything handed to him on a silver platter._ He's heard it plenty before, and told people to fuck off for less. It occurs to him that he's probably made a massive mistake in divulging this information to Sam. She'll just file it away for future humiliation.

"That blows," Sam says. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well I didn't expect you to—wait, what?" Did she really just pass up an opportunity to mock him?

"My mum didn't want me to enlist. My dad was a soldier and he died just before I was born. But I always wanted to join the army, and there's not much she could do to stop me once I turned eighteen."

Baird opens his mouth to say something, but for once, no words come. They've never had a candid conversation like this before. Maybe it's because of the embargo on sarcastic comments that they can actually open up to each other, even just a little bit, without worrying about it being thrown back in their face.

Is this what it could always be like with her?

Sam raises her drink in a mock toast. "To disappointing our parents."

"To disappointing our parents," Baird echoes, and clinks his glass against hers.

Sam's smile does something funny to his stomach. He's clearly had too much to drink.

* * *

Baird doesn't know how, but Sam somehow convinces him to help her out with the seating arrangements for the dinner.

"Thanks for coming," Sam says when she opens her front door. "Did you bring beer?"

Baird holds up the cardboard box, trying to peer around her to see into her apartment. He's never been over to her place before—for obvious reasons—and is curious to see what her habitat looks like. For as long as he's known her, Baird's imagined that she lives in either a garage or a tattoo studio with a mattress thrown in the corner.

"Do you want a tour or something?" Sam asks, taking the beer and closing the door behind them.

"No, I'm just wondering where you hid your tattoo equipment."

"Hardy-har," Sam says, depositing the box on her kitchen counter. "I just do stick and poke tattoos for friends; I don't run an unlicensed shop out of my apartment."

While Sam opens the box and pulls out two bottles, Baird takes this opportunity to look around. Her apartment is smaller than his, but it's cozy, not cramped. She's up pretty high in her building so she has a nice view over the city. What surprises him most are the bookshelves lining the walls, stuffed to the brim with books and DVDs.

"Didn't take you for a film buff," Baird remarks.

"I wasn't allowed to watch a lot of movies growing up," Sam says, coming to stand beside him and handing him a beer. "Guess I'm making up for it now."

Baird accepts the bottle with a nod. "So, what's your favourite movie?"

Sam pulls a face. "It's impossible to have _a_ favourite movie." She regards him for a second. "I swear to god, if you say yours is _Fight Club_, we can't be friends anymore."

_Are we even friends now?_ Baird wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. Somehow, he gets the feeling that would be treading into "lambent" territory.

"Okay," he says instead, switching gears. "Show me this seating chart that's so complicated that you needed my expertise. Unless you were just making excuses to spend time with me."

If Baird didn't know any better, he could have sworn that Sam blushed at his comment. But she plays it so cool, just rolling her eyes at him and leading him around the corner to what he assumes is the living room, that he must be seeing things. When they round the corner, Baird stops in his tracks.

"What the hell is that?"

Laid out on the coffee table in front of the couch is a massive poster board, absolutely littered with tiny different-coloured flags. A rectangle at the top seems to signify the head table – easy enough – with twelve other circles where the guests will sit. Baird gapes at it for a second, trying to find a pattern amongst the colours and coming up empty.

"I told you," Sam says, going to sit on the couch.

"How many people are coming? Jesus."

"There are a lot of officers Anya had to invite if she didn't want the rest of her career to be awkward as hell."

"Fucking politics," Baird mutters as he plops down beside Sam. "So, where do we start?"

"Family is easy," Sam says. "It's really just Marcus's dad and a few obligatory invites for distant relatives. I need your help with the military guests."

"Wonderful," Baird says. "All right, why don't we just put all the higher ups at the same table?"

He grabs the flags with all the names of the senior officers he recognizes and pins them around Table 5 – Hoffman, Reid, McLintock. It's a start, at least. But as he pushes the names into the board, Sam shakes her head.

"What?" he asks.

"You can't have Hoffman and McLintock sit beside each other; Hoffman'll throw a punch before they've finished serving appetizers."

Baird winces. "Good point. We'll just move McLintock to this table…"

He picks up the little flag with the major's name on it, but before he can pin it in the new position, Sam snatches it out of his hand.

"No! If you put McLintock at a table full of enlisted soldiers, he'll know he's been slighted. We're going to have to move Hoffman to a Delta table…"

Baird groans and slumps back against the couch. "I hate this. So much interpersonal drama that you have to work around without letting anyone _know_ you're working around it."

"Why do you think I offered to take this off Anya's plate?"

"Yeah, thanks for dragging me along with you."

Sam smirks at him. "Did you think I was going to suffer through this alone when I could listen to your bitching instead?"

Huffing, Baird slouches lower into the couch. He can't quite think of a clever comeback, not when he's mulling over the implication that Sam would rather have him doing this with her—grouchy attitude and all. He used to be the last person she wanted to spend time with. But what's the saying again? Misery loves company.

"So, which Delta table are we sticking Hoffman at?" Baird asks, trying to refocus.

Sam frowns at the seating chart. "We might have to do some rearranging. It makes the most sense to put him with Pad, but that might mean moving Mathieson..."

Instantly bored again, Baird leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. Maybe Sam will mistake his silence for sullen indifference. Unfortunately, he's not so lucky. He's just starting to nod off when there's a sharp slap against his thigh that jolts him back to alertness.

"What?" he splutters.

Sam's levelling a baleful look at him. "I know I'm not exactly your favourite person to be around, but do you really have to sleep through this?"

The sharp pang that flares under Baird's ribs surprises him, as does the genuine hurt that he sees in Sam's expression. It throws him: why is she upset about his perceived lack of interest in her company? And why does he _care_?

"Don't take it personally," Baird mumbles, annoyed to feel his cheeks heating up with shame. "It's just been a long frigging day, alright? Forgive me if seating charts aren't the most thrilling thing in the world."

Sam's face softens a bit at that, and the strange tight feeling in Baird's chest subsides slightly.

_Shit, what is going on with me?_

He sighs and turns his attention back to the tiny flags. "Come on, let's get this over with."

* * *

Baird doesn't remember falling asleep.

The last thing he recalls is covering his face with his hands when they realized they'd forgotten about Clayton Carmine's mysterious fourth brother, which threw off their entire seating configuration for three tables. Sam suggested taking a break, which Baird thought was a good idea as he was about five seconds away from taking a Lancer to the chart, coffee table be damned.

He remembers Sam settling beside him on the couch, bemoaning her decision to spearhead the seating arrangements, and giving her a shit-eating grin, even if he was suffering alongside her. He dimly recalls bitching about old gossip—which female guests Rossi couldn't sit near, which officers Hoffman would end up reaming out, who could be trusted around the smattering of Gorasni guests—and listening to Sam's voice as it got lower and deeper with exhaustion. They had been at it all evening, after all.

Still, he must have dozed off at some point because his eyes are closed and he can't remember how their conversation ended.

Baird's senses slowly come back to him. The first thing he notices is the aching in his neck—sleeping upright on a couch is hell on his body. There's a dull stiffness from his skull to his shoulder blades, a feeling that he knows from past experience will take days to dissipate. The fingers on his left hand are tingling slightly, signalling poor circulation. Whatever is putting pressure on the left side of his body is obviously the culprit, but it takes Baird's sleep-foggy brain a few moments to piece together what the warm weight against his side is. When he does finally put it together, he can't help but tense up.

Sam is slumped against him, her head leaning on his shoulder, breathing heavy and deep, just shy of a snore.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit—_

Baird's internal monologue nearly has him leaping to his feet in a flail of limbs, but he manages to restrain the erratic impulse. For one, he recognizes that having a friend—or whatever the hell Sam is to him—fall asleep against him isn't really cause for freaking out. For another, he knows any abrupt movements (especially launching upright) are bound to wake Sam up, and her being awake would only make this _more_ awkward. No, best to just pretend to be asleep until Sam wakes up naturally and extricates herself from the situation.

He forces himself to relax again. His arm is almost completely numb now, and it's going to hurt like a bitch when the blood flow gets going again. Still, now that the irrational panic is starting to ebb away, Baird actually finds this situation… kind of nice.

He's not a touchy-feely guy. He's very aware that he gives off _don't-touch-me_ vibes, intentionally or not. Cole was the first one to bulldoze through those boundaries and it took Baird an embarrassingly long time—years, really—to get used to Cole's bear hugs and shoulder pats and joking nudges. Baird's family has never been affectionate, physically or otherwise, and so he never really learned how to tolerate physical contact. It wasn't until the weirdness of Cole's friendly gestures wore off that Baird realized he actually sort of didn't mind being touched.

By certain people.

It's still mostly uncomfortable when other people do it. But with Sam leaning against him, it doesn't feel weird. It almost feels natural.

_Shit._

Well this complicates things.

* * *

Sam knows that Baird's awake. Her head slipped off his shoulder at one point and jolted her out of her sleep, a few minutes before Baird went all stiff and twitchy under her. Allowing herself a few more self-indulgent minutes of resting her head on Baird's shoulder, Sam tries to memorize this sensation: he's warm and solid and _nice_. Her sleep-foggy brain only _just_ manages to resist the urge to wrap her arms around him like an octopus.

_God, get a grip, Sam,_ she mentally chides herself.

She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through her nose, stretching as she sits upright. Blinking a couple times, she lets her eyes adjust to the darkness of her apartment. Baird is still tense beside her.

"Ugh, what time is it?" she asks, keeping it casual.

"It's, uh..." There's a blinding light as Baird pulls out his phone to check the time.

"Christ, my eyes," Sam moans, flinching away.

"Sorry!" The light disappears as Baird angles it away from her face. "It's just after midnight."

"Hmm." Sam stands up, wincing as her hip cracks. She makes her way carefully in the direction of the light switch, not wanting to stub her toe on any of her furniture.

"I should probably head out," Baird says in the darkness.

She can't help the way her heart sinks; she thought he might make an excuse to stay over. She closes her eyes and flicks on the light. When she turns around, Baird is standing awkwardly by the couch, his cheeks bright red. Is he embarrassed or something? She assumed he was just annoyed at the physical proximity between them—but Sam's seen what _annoyed_ looks like on him (plenty of times). This isn't it.

"I'll walk you out," she says. "Thanks for your help again."

"Any—" Baird coughs, clears his throat. "Any time."

The strange thing is, it sounds like he actually means it.

* * *

They have the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding in the backyard of the Stroud Estate. Sam always forgets that Anya's family is loaded. Anya lives in military housing—has since before her mom died and left her the family house—and doesn't put on airs like other wealthy people Sam's known. Marcus is the same, of course. He wasn't exactly kicked out when he enlisted, but Sam gathers that things at the Fenix house have been a bit tense ever since.

Dr. Fenix is here, hovering awkwardly near the barbecue as he tries to make small talk with some officers. He'd been a weapons developer in his past life, but tried to distance himself from that once Marcus enlisted. Sam prides herself on being connected to all the gossips on base; she rarely repeats anything she's heard, of course, but it's nice to know what unexpected landmines could be part of conversations with her superiors.

Sam stops watching Marcus's dad and sweeps her eyes along the various picnic tables, looking for somewhere to sit down with her burger. Anya's currently caught in a conversation with some distant relatives, but Marcus looks like he's about to go save her from that. Plus, Sam's in no mood to make nice with people she's never met before and will probably never meet again. She'll have to do enough of that tomorrow.

"Hey, Sam!"

Cole's apparently noticed her looking for a spot and has his arm up in the air, waving her over. Sam grins and heads towards him. Baird is in his customary spot next to his friend, so that's a bonus. She grabs a seat in front of the two of them and immediately takes a big bite out of her burger.

"Aren't you on a diet or something?" Baird asks.

Cole immediately shoots him a look, but Sam just snorts. She can tell that Baird isn't trying to offend her for once; instead he's just attempting to start a conversation—badly.

"_I'm_ not getting married," she says around her mouthful.

"Charming," Baird says, wrinkling his nose slightly.

Sam swallows. And is it just her, or does Baird watch the bob of her throat? Interesting. "Besides, I work out so I can eat what I want." She decides to test the waters just a little. "Why, do I look like I'm putting on weight?"

Cole's eyes go wide with alarm, probably expecting this to lead to a shouting match in about thirty seconds. He elbows Baird in the side and clears his throat meaningfully. But Baird doesn't appear to have noticed. His eyes sweep up and down Sam's body once.

And then Baird's face goes red. "No, uh, you look very... nice."

_Very_ interesting.

"So, Gus," Sam says, "tell me who I should pick for my fantasy thrashball league."

They instituted a rule this year that Cole wasn't allowed to participate—but no one said anything about consultations. As Cole launches into a protracted speech about the stats of each player, Sam casually lets her hand settle on the table—her fingertips only inches from Baird's. She expects him to flinch away or remove his hand, but instead he just sort of seems to freeze up.

Sam doesn't think she's deluding herself, but something's definitely changed in their dynamic. Maybe her crush isn't so one-sided anymore.

* * *

So he's attracted to Sam. So what?

It shouldn't make a difference. Baird's always been aware of her... assets. The first time he met her, before she said a word, he'd briefly wondered what it would take to get her into bed. But having a one-night stand with Anya's best friend was stupid even for him, and then Sam decided to make a game of pissing him off every chance she got, and all thoughts of trying anything with her had gone out the window.

Until that frigging night on her couch.

Jesus, he has the worst possible timing. He has to _focus_. The wedding is tomorrow for god's sake, and suddenly he can't stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss the maid of honour. If it was any other wedding than Marcus's—

Sam's hand settles on the table. Very close to Baird. He could stretch out his fingers and brush her skin. Would she jerk back if he did? He's suddenly transfixed by the space between their hands on the picnic table. It's like a whole new world of possibilities have been opened up. He always assumed Sam hated his guts, but now he has a sneaking suspicion that maybe she's been metaphorically pulling his hair _on purpose_.

Doesn't matter. Not for the next twenty-four hours, anyway. He's got a wedding to get through.

* * *

Sam powerwalks through the hotel's carpeted hallway, concentrating on her steps. The last thing she needs is to misstep and roll her ankle. An easy-enough mistake to make in high heels, especially when she isn't used to wearing them, and she does _not_ have time for a twisted ankle today. Not until after the ceremony, anyway.

_519, 521, 523… _

She scans the plates on the doors for the room she needs. Anya got ready this morning with Bernie and Sam in Sam's hotel room, and everything had gone fine so they hadn't noticed the missing bridal emergency kit until they needed it. Of course. Anya thinks she left it in the honeymoon suite, where Marcus and the groomsmen were this morning.

_527! Finally._

Sam lets herself into the suite with the key card Anya gave her. She vaguely remembers what the emergency bag looked like, and just hopes it won't take too long to track down. They still have plenty of time before the ceremony starts but Sam is still prepared for something worse to go wrong then a small tear in the seam of Anya's dress.

She rounds the corner into the main part of the room and discovers she's not alone.

Baird is coming out of the bathroom and startles when he sees her. Sam stops dead in her tracks as she takes in the fact that he's _not wearing a shirt_.

_Holy shit._

She's always been dimly aware of the fact that Baird is built; summer armour leaves nothing to the imagination when it comes to arms, after all. But being confronted with the wide expanse of Baird's muscled chest, well… Sam doesn't even feel a little bad about taking a good moment to take it all in. She has a sudden, vivid image of pushing Baird up against the wall and kissing him until he can't see straight.

Baird cocks an eyebrow at her. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry," Sam replies, snapping back to reality. "I was just looking for…" She spots the makeup bag on the coffee table and walks over to grab it. "Shouldn't you be downstairs with the rest of the boys?"

Baird's face colours slightly. "I'm on my way."

She takes a pointed look at his bare chest. "Yeah, I can see you were just about to walk out the door."

Baird fixes her with an unimpressed stare. "Look, I'm trying to tie a bowtie without wrinkling my shirt, okay?"

"Oh, is that all?" Sam puts down the bag and pushes past Baird into the bathroom. (She has to resist the urge to deliberately brush against his bare skin.) "Lucky for you, I'm an expert."

"You are, are you?" he says in a tone that tells her he's not at all convinced.

Sam rolls her eyes, but doesn't take offence. She learned a long time ago that Baird's default setting is biting skepticism; it's nothing personal. She finds his bowtie on the bathroom counter and turns around to beckon Baird in after her. He's already buttoning up his dress shirt; Sam allows herself to internally mourn the loss of his abs.

"Here, stand in front of me," she says.

He does, radiating reluctance. Still, Sam doesn't find herself getting annoyed. This attitude is a front he puts on when he gets uncomfortable—for the most part. He can still be a total dickwad sometimes, but those moments are few and far between nowadays. Besides, she's a little distracted at the moment.

This is the closest they've been since that night when they both fell asleep on her couch. Standing behind him, she's again struck by just how much _bigger_ he is than her. He doesn't look it most of the time, not when he's usually next to Cole or Marcus, but now that she's seen what he's been hiding under his shirts this whole time…

She can't help herself; she places her hands on his shoulders, under the pretense of smoothing his shirt down, feeling the hard muscle underneath her palms. He smells good, too. Whatever cologne he's wearing is definitely up her alley.

"Any time today would be nice," Baird says.

"Don't get your grundies in a twist."

Sam reaches around his neck, pushing up on her toes slightly to get the right angle. It's always been a little confusing watching herself in the mirror, so she closes her eyes and lets muscle memory take over. She pauses a few times while trying to remember the motions, but it's all over and done with in about two minutes. When she opens her eyes to admire her handiwork—not bad, though she says it herself—she catches Baird staring at her face in the mirror. He quickly looks away, but Sam is in the perfect position to see the flush creeping up the back of his neck.

If she wasn't on such a tight schedule…

"Turn around," she says.

Baird does so, very slowly, but at least he's actually listening to her. "Not bad. Where'd you learn to do that?"

Sam adjusts the bowtie, evening out the sides. "I was a tomboy growing up. Refused to wear dresses until I was in my twenties."

"This one looks good on you," Baird says, and then she sees the panic in his expression as he registers the words that just came out of his mouth.

She smiles, deciding to let him off easy. "Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself. Now, anyway."

"Gee, thanks."

"I gotta go; Anya's waiting on a sewing kit."

Is it her imagination, or does Baird seem to deflate slightly? "Yeah. I should probably go find Marcus and Cole."

"I'll see you at dinner." They'll be paired together in the wedding party of course, but Sam's expecting to be run off her feet for the rest of the day until she finally sits down at the head table.

"Yeah. See you."

* * *

Baird books it down to where Marcus and Cole are starting to greet the guests, desperately trying to will his semi away.

_Christ, how pathetic_, he thinks as he checks his reflection out in the elevator. Nothing too noticeable, hopefully. It would have been helpful if he could have taken a cold shower—or if he'd had time to go back to his room and take care of things. But no, he's running late as it is, and even though he loathes small talk with a burning passion, it's his job as best man to shield Marcus from the worst of it while everyone finds their seats.

He can't stop thinking about the sensation of Sam's arms around his neck, of her breath against the shell of his ear, so close that if he'd rocked back on his heels, he could have—

_Christ on a bike, get a grip!_

He's never felt like this about someone he has the hots for. Normally it's easy for him to shut down his emotions and focus on the task at hand, but somehow with Sam it's become impossible for him to ignore. He hopes she didn't notice how he was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of her in a dress. It's nothing even _revealing_ for god's sake, and he'd seen her in that exact same dress during that disastrous fitting—and yet he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to strip that dress off of her and have access to—

_Not the time. Not today._

The elevator dings as it reaches the ground floor, and Baird prays to all the gods he can think of that no one decides to take a closer look at his crotch.

He makes his way to the ballroom, where he sees Marcus and Cole standing in front of a small crowd of people. The sight of Marcus in a suit is still doing uncomfortable things to Baird's chest. The last time Marcus wore a suit was at Dom's funeral, and yeah, that one had been traditional mourning black while his wedding suit is a light grey, but Baird can't help but see the similarities.

Well, that takes care of his erection. All he had to do was think about his dead friend's funeral.

_Jesus Christ._

Baird scrubs a hand over his face and braces himself. No time for thinking of Dom or Sam or anything else not related to making sure the next few hours go as smoothly as possible. He slides into position next to Marcus and smiles tightly at the next guest who stops by to chat before taking their seat.

"So," Baird says when they have a free moment, "are you ready?"

"Ready for this day to be over," Marcus grumbles.

_Me too, buddy. Me too._

The ceremony itself is a bit of a blur. Baird's so focused on the timing and everything they've rehearsed—he checks is pockets about a dozen times to make sure he has the rings—that everything in his periphery melts away. The officiant's words barely register until he asks that the couple exchange rings with their vows, and then Baird jolts to attention and passes the rings to Marcus with more care than he's ever handled an IED. He even manages to sign the marriage license as a witness without fucking that up. Then it's time for the recessional and Baird concentrates so hard on not tripping down the aisle that he hardly notices Sam's arm link with his as they follow the bride and groom out.

Holy shit, Marcus and Anya are married now. He doesn't know why that seems so weird—they've been dating as long as Baird's known the pair of them, and he always assumed they'd tie the knot eventually. And now they're actually _married_.

It's hard not to grin like an idiot.

They kill time before the reception by hiding in their hotel rooms. Well, Baird and Cole hang out in their suite—Marcus makes some excuse about getting ice and disappears for half an hour. When he comes back (without any ice), his tie is slightly askew and there are fewer frown lines on his face.

"Thought you were supposed to wait until the sun goes down," Cole smirks. Like Marcus and Anya haven't been sleeping together since they were teenagers.

Marcus just glares at them, and then goes to raid the mini bar.

By the time they finally head down to dinner, Baird's stomach is trying to eat itself. He hadn't really eaten much that morning out of nervousness and it's not like the hotel has plates of appetizers just sitting around. Once again, Baird's thankful that there aren't any speeches—quicker to food. Anya gives a short little welcome to the guests and then the waiters bring out the first course.

The groomsmen sit next to Marcus at dinner and the bridesmaids are on Anya's side of the head table, so Baird isn't able to interact with Sam at all. It's almost like Marcus and Anya separated them on purpose, which Baird realizes dismally is probably the case. They probably thought they were doing the two of them a favour.

By the time the dessert plates are cleared and the DJ opens up the dancefloor, Baird's nervous energy has left him. He's sort of just ready for this whole thing to be over, but he can't duck out early. He has to stay and help pack up the room once everyone's cleared out at the end of the night.

Cole drags Baird away from the head table to talk to Clay and Jace, who've clearly made a decent dent in their table wine. Baird envies them, although he figures that Marcus wouldn't really appreciate it if his best man got blackout drunk. Bernie eventually drifts over on her way to sit with Hoffman and stops to share in the giddy excitement.

"Congratulations on a job well done, boys," Bernie says.

"As if we'd let anything go wrong," Cole grins back.

Bernie hugs them both before going to rescue Hoffman.

"Better watch out, Cole," Baird says once she's gone. "Isn't it tradition that a bridesmaid is supposed to hook up with a groomsman?"

Cole chokes on the punch he's drinking. When he manages to recover, he fixes Baird with a sly grin. "I thought it was the best man and the maid of honour?"

Baird immediately regrets making a joke. His first instinct is to look around in a panic to make sure Sam hasn't overheard, but he knows Cole wouldn't make that kind of comment with her in earshot. Nonetheless, Baird's whole face heats up.

"I'd never be so predictable," Baird grumbles, trying to hide his blush behind his beer.

"You should ask her to dance."

Now it's Baird's turn to nearly spit out his drink.

Cole's still grinning, but it's lost its joking edge. "Seriously. She'd say yes."

"Oh yeah, you a mind-reader now?"

"Don't need to be. I've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's paying attention."

Baird feels his heartrate pick up. "What?"

"Plus, you've been in love with her since you met her," Cole continues easily. "What better place to make a move than at a wedding?"

"_What_?" The bottom drops out of Baird's stomach. "I have not – I'm not _in love_ – that's –" he protests weakly, even as the pieces all start to fall into place.

_Jesus Christ,_ he thinks. _I'm the biggest idiot in the world._

Cole lets him have his existential crisis for a few moments before nodding in the direction of the head table. "She's over there. Go get her, baby."

Baird downs the rest of his beer and forces his feet to move. He's nervous—stupid nervous, almost like the way he used to feel right before a fire fight. Sam's sitting at the end of the long table, checking her phone. Baird wonders briefly who she could be texting—all her friends are here—and an irrational surge of jealousy pulses through him. But from over her shoulder he can see that she's just looking at pictures she's taken throughout the day. His reaction, though, kind of cements everything.

Still, what if Cole's wrong? What if he's about to make an ass of himself in front of this woman? (The woman he's apparently been in love with for a year without realizing.) But now that he's aware of the situation, he knows he can't ignore it any longer. He has to do something—rip the Band-Aid off, one way or another.

The DJ is playing a slow song. Marcus and Anya are at the centre of the dancefloor, surrounded by other couples. The timing won't get any better than this.

Baird taps Sam lightly on the shoulder. She looks up and her mouth pops open slightly when she sees it's him. His heart is pounding in his ears as he holds out his hand.

"You wanna dance?" he asks.

Sam blinks at him, and for a horrible moment, he thinks she's going to refuse. But then she takes his hand and gets to her feet at the same time as a smile breaks out on her face.

"I thought you were glad we weren't obligated to dance together?"

"Yeah, well…"

He doesn't have a good comeback for that so he just leads her over to the dancefloor. Most people's eyes are on the newlyweds, giving Baird some semblance of privacy in a crowded room as he edges off of the carpet. Sam follows; as she steps onto the hardwood, her hand suddenly tightens around his.

"Go slow, okay? I haven't danced in heels in years."

Baird chuckles. "I haven't _danced_ in years."

"Perfect partners, then." Sam places her free hand on his shoulder and steps in close. "Lead on."

Baird wasn't kidding when he said he hadn't danced in a while. The last time he went to a club was god knows how many years ago, and slow-dancing hadn't exactly been a part of his repertoire at the time. He takes a quick survey of the other couples and decides that if everyone else seems to be just sort of swaying, there can't be anything wrong with that. Putting a hand on Sam's lower back, he pulls her to his chest and—yep, _nothing_ wrong with this at all.

Her warmth pressed against him, her hand held loosely in his—he didn't realize how much he wanted it until right this second.

Maybe dancing was a bad idea. He should have just asked her to go back to his room.

"So," Sam says, looking at him from under her eyelashes, "why now?"

Oh god, where to even start with that one? "I sort of had an epiphany," he says.

"Oh? Remind me to thank Gus."

"I could have had it on my own, you know," he retorts, mock indignant.

She rolls her eyes and then settles her head on his chest, and he feels his heart stumble over the next beat. Jeez, if someone would have told him he'd end up in this position a few months ago, he would've laughed his ass off. It's not so funny anymore. He pulls her a little closer, and she definitely notices that. She tilts her head up and Baird's throat goes dry.

It's go time.

But then Sam grabs his hand and starts dragging him across the dancefloor.

"What – are you –" Baird splutters as he tries to match her pace.

"I'm _not_ kissing you in front of a room full of people!" Sam hisses over her shoulder.

_Oh_. Baird nearly trips over his own feet. Stupid dress shoes. He glances around, wondering if anyone has picked up on what they're doing, and _of course_ meets Cole's eyes from across the room. Cole's grinning, wide and exaggerated, and gives Baird a thumbs up. Baird feels his face heat up again and he _knows_ that Cole will never let him live this down. Apparently he is cliché enough to hook up with a bridesmaid at a wedding after all.

Sam pulls him out of the ballroom and down a nearby hallway. He can't figure out where she's taking him until she pushes open the door to the ladies' washroom.

"Oh, you're right," Baird remarks dryly. "This is much more romantic."

"Much more _private_," Sam counters, and shoves him into the handicapped stall.

Baird doesn't even have time to register if Sam has locked the stall door behind them before his back hits the tiled wall and she gets right up in his personal space, jamming a thigh between his legs. He can't help but grunt, and the sarcastic quip that's on its way out gets lost when she grips the back of his neck and pulls his mouth down to meet hers.

And then they're kissing.

Baird's had plenty of one-night stands and a smattering of short-term relationships (although nothing really for the last year and that dry streak makes a _lot_ more sense now), so he's no stranger to kissing. And it's not like he hasn't been imagining what it would be like to kiss Sam for… a while… but reality is very different. It's _intense_—almost electric, like there's a current running between them, thrumming under his skin. He's suddenly _very_ glad that they didn't do this on the dancefloor because now that he's started, he doesn't think he can stop.

His hands, which have been flailing stupidly at his sides, come up to frame her face. He adjusts her slightly to get a better angle, and Sam responds by opening her mouth under his. The small moan from the back of her throat makes his head spin; it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Her hands clutch at his arms and she presses him harder against the wall. It smarts a bit on his tailbone but there's honestly no place he would rather be. Part of him wonders if this is some sort of stress-induced hallucination because he really has no idea how he got here.

And then her hand slips into the top of his dress pants.

Baird pulls away. "What are you _doing_?"

"I thought that was rather obvious."

"We are in _public_!" he protests, unable to decide if he's scandalized or intrigued.

"Barely," Sam counters. "Come on, live a little."

He quickly weighs the benefits of the situation against the potential downsides (con: good chance of getting caught and suffering public humiliation; pro: orgasm) and then sighs and motions for Sam to continue, as if he's somehow doing her a massive favour by letting her give him a handjob in a bathroom stall.

Sam grins, licks a wide stripe up her palm, and then slides her hand all the way into his boxers. When her long, slender fingers curl around his cock, he lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. It's a touch on the rough side but he's not going to complain – especially not when Sam presses her lips to his again. She's gentle this time, easy and undemanding, like she could do this all day. That thought makes his knees start to shake a little bit as his hips begin to rock with each sure twist of her fingers.

And then they hear the door to the washroom open.

They both freeze. _Did_ Sam lock the stall door? Oh Jesus, he hopes so. The last thing he needs is someone walking in while her hand is down his pants. Neither of them move as they listen to the high heels click across the floor. Whoever it is doesn't go into a stall, but seems to stop closer to the sinks and the mirrors.

_Typical woman, fixing her makeup._

Baird expects Sam to slide her hand free. Instead, she makes eye contact with him and _smirks._

_Oh no._

She begins to jack him again – slowly, deliberately – and Baird has to reach down and grab her wrist.

"You're _insane_," he whispers.

"Why? She doesn't know we're here."

Baird glares at her, but he has to admit – his heart is still pounding with excitement in his chest. There's something a little exhilarating about the whole situation.

"You can always say 'lambent'," Sam whispers.

"I'm going to _murder _you if we get caught," he hisses through clenched teeth. It's not a no.

Sam just pats his cheek lightly and then sinks to her knees. The sight alone is nearly enough to push Baird over the edge of his climax, but he manages to hold on because he is _not_ that easy, thank you very much. He does, however, have to bite down on his lower lip to keep from swearing when Sam shimmies his pants down slightly and takes his cock into her mouth.

_Jesus fuck._

The wet heat surrounding him is nearly enough to make him blow his cover – and his mind. He balls his hand into a fist and pushes it against the wall, trying to ground himself. The apprehension around potentially getting caught buzzes around his head, driving him a little crazy. He can't say anything, can't make any noise whatsoever. All he can do is stand and hope his legs don't give out – which they very well might, because Sam seems to be trying to suck his brain out through his dick. She's using a lot of tongue and a lot of suction, basically ensuring that he's going to be ruined for all time for anyone else's blowjobs.

Not that he _wants_ anyone else's blowjobs ever. God, he's fucked.

The heels click-clack towards the exit. Sam presses her tongue against the bundle of nerves under his cockhead and Baird sees _stars._ Is Sam _trying_ to get them caught? He sucks in a breath and tenses; he thinks he might pass out or possibly just die from the effort it takes to hold back his orgasm for a few more seconds until he hears the door bang shut. And then he expels all the air from his lungs in one harsh breath as he comes like a punch to the stomach.

When the world comes back into focus, Sam is already on her feet again, fixing her lipstick in a small pocket mirror she's produced from somewhere, as if nothing just happened.

"Jesus Christ," Baird says, voice a little shaky, as he tucks himself back into his pants. "That was, uh. Yeah."

Sam snaps the mirror shut and stows it in the pocket of her dress. "Glad you enjoyed yourself."

_Oh, right._

He reaches out to palm Sam's jaw and gives her what he hopes is a seductive smile. The thought of seeing her face contorted with ecstasy, of getting his hands on her breasts and between her legs, is almost enough to get another erection going again. "I'd be happy to return the favour."

Sam grins. "I'll hold you to that. But people are probably missing us."

Damn. If only they were regular guests, no one would notice if they just disappeared. People would just assume they went home. Part of Baird wants to just say screw it and stay in the washroom for the rest of the night, but it's _Marcus and Anya_. As much as he'd like to indulge, he knows he can't leave his friends hanging. Why did he have to become a good person again?

"You're right," he grumbles, dropping his hand. "What are the chances we can bribe the DJ to play shitty songs and clear the dancefloor?"

"With Gus out there? Not likely."

"Okay then. Let's go be social."

He steps past Sam to open the stall door, but she grabs his arm and spins him around. Before he can say anything, she kisses him again – firm, quick, and just a little filthy. God, he loves this woman.

"Meet me in my hotel room later," she says, pressing a keycard into his palm.

* * *

Sam leaves Baird gaping in the washroom and hustles back to the ballroom. She's brimming with so much satisfaction that she's only half-paying attention and nearly runs headlong into Cole as she makes her way towards the bar.

"Whoa!" Cole exclaims, holding his beer in the air to save it.

"Sorry!" Sam feels herself blush furiously. "Gosh, I almost made you wear that."

Cole just smiles. "Wouldn't have been a problem. I'm sure plenty of ladies here wouldn't mind seeing me without a shirt on. Speaking of, get what you want out of our mutual friend?"

That surprises a laugh out of her. "Oh, I'm just getting started with him."

"Thank god. The unresolved sexual tension between y'all has been killing me."

"Was it that obvious?"

"Between you teasing him constantly and him getting so riled up because he's so out of touch with his emotions that he didn't realize he liked you?" Cole snorts. "Uh, yeah."

Sam leans in and kisses Cole's cheek. "Thank you, by the way. Who knows how long it would have taken him to figure it out."

"I think he was on the way. But I figured I'd fast-track the process."

"I appreciate it. I've wanted to jump his bones since I met him."

Cole grins. "Oh, I know. And now hopefully he'll be less uptight."

Sam spends the next hour or so mingling with guests, deliberately keeping as much space between herself and Baird as possible. Part of her wants to keep teasing him and play a bit hard-to-get; another part of her doesn't trust herself not to drag him into a dark corner and traumatize some guests. She can feel his eyes on her for the rest of the night, which is equal parts exhilarating and infuriating. She wants everybody to get the fuck out.

After Marcus and Anya excuse themselves for the evening, everyone else slowly starts to trickle out. The cleanup crew descends and Sam pulls out her list to make sure she grabs a few items that need to go back to their respective owners. There's a crystal vase that was part of the head table decoration that Sam is especially nervous about – an old Stroud family heirloom. She decides to grab it and take it up to her hotel room before it gets knocked over accidentally.

When the door to her suite swings closed behind her, Sam heaves a sigh. It's been a long day – a good day, but long. Being in a wedding party is _exhausting_. Not once throughout the day has she really been able to completely enjoy herself; there's always something to be thinking about. Like getting this vase to safety. Speaking of, Sam places it on top of a dresser and out of harm's way. Hopefully she won't stumble into it in the middle of the night or something.

Mission accomplished, Sam decides she's earned a breather and goes over to sit on the bed. She wonders if Baird will actually come, or if he'll decide he's already gotten what he wanted out of tonight. She's not above reaming him out at the continental breakfast tomorrow morning.

God, she's tired. No one will miss her if she takes a five-minute break. She puts her head down on the pillow and closes her eyes, just for a second...

The next thing she knows, someone is shaking her shoulder gently. She startles awake, disoriented, until she sees who it is that woke her.

"You came," she breathes, her voice still a little husky from sleep.

Baird grins and holds up the keycard. "Of course I did. I owe you an orgasm."

It might be a little sad, but that sentence alone – coming from Damon Baird – is enough to get her heartrate to pick up. "Is that the only reason?"

"Well..." He sits on the edge of the bed and trails a finger up her exposed leg. "That, and a few other things."

His hand slides under her dress and clutches at her ass. The look he's giving her, with pupils blown wide and a heavy gaze, makes her stomach swoop – even if she did give him a blowjob in the bathroom not two hours ago. She shifts so she's on her back, giving him easier access, and she doesn't miss the way he swallows thickly as he crawls onto the bed. His fingers catch the elastic band of her underwear and he begins to tug it slowly down her legs. By the time he slides it over her heels, she can already feel the liquid pleasure starting to pool at the base of her spine.

He flicks his eyes up to meet her gaze. "You want my hands or my mouth?"

_Oh Jesus._ "Your mouth," she says without hesitation. "I've been fantasizing about putting that to better use since I met you."

Baird frowns, but his cheeks are definitely turning pink. "Better use?"

"Than your yammering. Unless you think that's your only talent."

"I can guarantee you it's not."

"Oh yeah? Prove it."

"Watch me."

He pushes up her dress at the same time she spreads her legs. She hopes her expression is more daring than desperate, but that's how she feels – almost _aching_ with anticipation because soon she's actually going to know what it feels like to have Baird's mouth on her – _oh._

"Oh," she says stupidly as he presses his tongue into her folds. Then, to save some face, she continues, "If you start drawing the alphabet, I swear to god—"

As if just to spite her, he swirls his tongue around her clit and Sam nearly collapses as electricity shoots through her veins. _Jesus._ Of course he'd be good at this – better than good, if she's being honest, but she'll never tell him that. He's smug enough already without the added ego boost. Her reactions, though, aren't exactly keeping up the charade: she can't help the little gasps that pour out of her with each swipe of his tongue, or the way her hands grip the sheets like she's holding on for dear life. And then she notices dimly that one of his hands is clutching her thigh, his thumb rubbing gently against her skin. Somehow that feels more intimate than the fact that he's got his face between her legs.

He finds his rhythm pretty quickly, intuitively picking up on what makes her squirm without her actually needing to say anything. She really shouldn't be surprised; he's always been smart. But now she gets to experience it firsthand and she's got to say, her fantasies didn't go him justice. Quicker than she thought possible, he's pushed her to the edge of release, and she swears she can _feel_ him smiling down there. Cocky bastard. But before she can make a quip, he presses deeper, harder, and she's gone.

When she opens her eyes again, Baird is leaning over her, an overconfident smirk on his stupid, gorgeous face. "Good enough for you?"

"Shut up," she says, and pulls him down to seal their mouths together.

Baird settles his weight on top of her and she feels his arousal against her hip. She rolls her pelvis experimentally and is rewarded when Baird _groans_ into her mouth and mirrors her movement. Despite the fact that she just came, she wants _more_. He does too, judging by the way he grips her arms and drags her closer.

She pulls away to ask, "You gonna stay dressed?"

Baird pointedly glances down at her, but sits upright to undo his bowtie and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Sam stands up with her back to him and the bed, and rather than do the undignified maneuver of hitching her dress up so she can start zipping it down from the top, she opts for a more sensual approach. She glances over her shoulder, pleased to see that Baird's taken an interest in her backside, and pulls her hair out of the way.

"Unzip me?" she asks, making her voice light and breathy.

Baird's eyes trail up from her bum to her face. He looks _hungry_. When he gets to his feet, he _bounces_ up, and then steps right up behind her – almost a mirror image of a few hours earlier when she was helping him with his bowtie. His fingers linger on her bare skin as he pulls the zipper down, going tooth by tooth, and his breath on the back of her neck makes her shiver. When he reaches the end, he surprises her by ducking down and pressing his lips against her spine, and she can't help but sigh when he backs away again.

She slips out of her dress, quickly removes her bra, and then bends down to take of her heels when Baird clears his throat.

"What?"

Looking up, she finds that he's beaten her in the getting naked race, but that's not what catches her attention. There's a blush from his face all the way down his neck, and he looks almost – sheepish?

"You could, uh." He rubs the back of his neck. "You could leave those on."

Sam blinks once, and then a slow smile creeps across her face as understanding dawns. She stands back up, letting him get a good view of her nakedness (save for the high heels), and watches the way the blush spreads further down his body. His dick actually _twitches_ against his leg, and if that isn't just the most enticing thing. Stepping right up in front of him, she places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a gentle push – which he goes with, and promptly sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Is this what you're in to?" she asks as she straddles his lap. "Damon?"

For some reason that seems to break whatever trance he's in. He reaches out, grabs her hips, and pulls her flush against him, trapping his cock between them.

"Condom?" he gasps.

"Purse."

Baird slaps his hand around on the bed until he finds her purse, digs inside, and manages to find the foil wrapper, all while his other hand palms her breast. It's very hot. She plucks the condom out of his hands and tears it open before he can protest. When she rolls it onto his dick, he goes very still and silent.

"Well that's interesting," she says conversationally.

"Huh?"

"I've finally figured out how to make you stop talking. Might get a bit awkward if I do this around the base, though."

"Jesus Christ."

Then she leans in and whispers right in his ear, "Next time I'll show you how I can put it on with my teeth."

"_Jesus_," Baird groans, closing his eyes.

She wraps her hand around his erection and gives a slow, deliberate pump of her fist. Baird groans again and lets his head tip back as he sinks back onto his elbows. God, he's beautiful like this – naked underneath her, eyes screwed shut with pleasure because of _her_. And she's about done with teasing. She needs him inside of her, like, _yesterday_.

"Ready?" she asks.

Instead of speaking, Baird just nods his head furiously. She really _did_ find a way to shut him up. Now that this is an option open to her... the possibilities are endless. But right now there's a very clear path to follow. She lifts up off of his lap to get a better angle and watches as Baird lines them up and pushes the tip of his dick into her.

Now it's her turn to moan, "_Shit_."

"You good?" he asks.

She nods, not trusting her voice just yet. She wiggles further down onto his cock, feeling the familiar stretch, just shy of painful. Once she takes him all the way in and settles back on his hips, she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Good." And he tips her chin to kiss her, slow and methodical.

It's been a strange evening, dancing between the two different ends of the spectrum from passionate to tender. Maybe it's the fact that there've been underlying feelings for coming on a year, or maybe it's simply their personalities. Whatever the case, Sam gets the feeling that this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. That hadn't been her intention when she decided to jerk him off in the bathroom, of course, but it's nice to suspect that they're both on the same page here.

"You gonna sit there all night, or –?"

Sam kisses him quickly. "So impatient."

Baird reaches around to pinch her bum, which makes her yelp and jerk a little. The sudden movement shifts his position inside her and their laughter trails off into gasps. Right. She's chasing a second orgasm, she can ruminate on the rapidly escalating intensity of their new relationship later. Baird's hands rest on her hips, guiding her in a steady grind that manages to hit her sweet spot. She's still a little sensitive from her previous orgasm and each of his thrusts sends a shivery shock of _fuckyesgood_ from her toes to her fingertips.

She grabs the back of his neck with one hand and drags his face back to hers at the same time she pinches one of his nipples with her other hand. He jolts and his stomach muscles clench so she keeps that up, stroking and squeezing until his thrusts start to stutter and lose the rhythm. The tight ache between her legs begins to grow tighter and tighter and she's unable to resist slipping her hand between their bodies to help herself over the edge.

But Baird has other ideas. He pushes her hand away and locks eyes with her. "Let me," he says.

She nods, momentarily thrown. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that Damon Baird would be an attentive lover. Then his thumb brushes over her clit and she decides to stop thinking for a while as her toes curl, and it isn't long before she shatters apart for the second time that night. Baird savours the end of her orgasm, sinking in and out a few more times, still hard. Sam clenches around him, ducks down to bite at his nipples. Too easy. His muscles tense and he manages to jerk out a few more erratic thrusts before he follows her into release.

They both sort of collapse after the twitching stops, Baird onto his back, Sam on top of him. The change in position shifts his cock inside of her, and Baird lets out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Sam can't really bring herself to move at the moment and unjoin their bodies; she's content being exactly here.

"So," Baird says after the rise and fall of his chest has returned to normal, "how was it for you?"

Sam laughs against his chest. "Do you really have to ask?"

"It's important communicate, Byrne."

"Communicating is a little more than just opening your face-hole and making sounds at people."

"Shut up." Baird swats her butt. "Not that this isn't cute and all, but are you gonna get off me at some point?"

"Mmm," she hums noncommittally. But she pushes herself up and rolls off of him.

She finally takes of her heels and flexes her feet. The slight discomfort was so worth it though, for the look on Baird's face. She has no doubt that she can file that little turn-on away for later and deploy it with devastating accuracy at the proper time. Rifling through her suitcase, she pulls out the oversized t-shirt she brought as pyjamas, and turns back around.

Baird's still lying flat on his back, arms crossed behind his head like he hasn't a care in the world. Her heart swells; she'd half-imagined he'd already be making excuses to escape back to his room, but he doesn't look like he's overly motivated to leave. Good. She has this room to herself; Anya only shared it the previous night before the wedding before moving her bags to the honeymoon suite earlier in the day. It might be pushing a bit too far, but Sam decides to take a chance – the chance she wishes she'd taken that night they did the seating arrangements.

"As hilarious as it would be to see you do the walk of shame back to your room," she says, "you could always just stay here tonight."

Baird props himself up on his elbows and gives her a flat look. "Did you really think I was going to just go?"

She really can't help the smile that breaks out on her face at his words. "Just thought I'd check."

"Get back here," he replies, reaching out a hand.

She takes it, lets him pull her forward until she's standing between his legs. When she's close enough, Baird mouths at her belly, his fingers skimming over the crack of her ass. She's already feeling a little weak, a little vulnerable, when he moves up her body and takes one of her nipples lightly between his teeth.

"_Ah_," she gasps, flinching a little.

"Sorry." He pulls back. "Was that –?"

"No, no, it's good. Just a little sensitive. You can't be good to go already, can you?"

"Not for a bit," he says, and then grabs her hips and positions them so that _she's_ the one with her back on the bed, Baird straddling her. "But I can think of plenty to do to pass the time until then."

* * *

Baird wakes up, blinking sunlight out of his eyes. He has a moment of disorientation where he can't remember where he is, and then the events of the previous evening come flooding back to him as he focuses on the person next to him in bed. Sam's on her side facing away, and Baird apparently curled in close behind her at some point, slinging one arm over her waist and tangling their legs together.

It's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders; he feels lighter, unwound, free. To think he'd been carrying around an infatuation for a year, disguising itself as annoyance because he'd stuffed all his emotions down where no one could hurt him. It would take someone as brazen as Sam to fall for him anyway, emotional baggage and all. He grins, pressing a kiss to Sam's shoulder blade. She doesn't stir, and Baird allows himself a moment of satisfaction to believe that he's fucked her into such a deep sleep. (He concedes it might also have something to do with being run off her feet yesterday as the maid of honour, but Baird prefers to think positively.)

The moment is ruined, however, when the phone on the bedside table rings shrilly in the quiet room and scares the absolute _bejesus_ out of him.

Sam pushes herself upright so quickly that Baird doesn't have time to get out of the way, and her back knocks into his jaw. He reels back in pain, only stopping the stream of curse words on their way out of his mouth because Sam picks up the phone.

"H'lo?" she mumbles into the receiver.

Baird can dimly hear something on the other end, but he's too distracted by the throbbing in his jaw. It's not a long conversation anyway; Sam slams down the phone only a few seconds later.

"Sorry," she says, rolling over to face him. "I forgot I asked for a wake-up call."

"I think I just had a heart attack," he replies, trying to hold on to the afterglow of the morning. "When are we supposed to be down for breakfast?"

"Half an hour."

He doesn't even have time to make a lewd suggestion before Sam smiles slyly and shifts closer.

"Not worried we're going to be late?" he asks as she positions herself half on-top of him.

"Don't flatter yourself," she says, leaning in to catch his earlobe with her teeth. "Anyway, I think I'm ahead, orgasm-wise."

Baird briefly – stupidly – tries to think back and catalogue how the evening went, but his brain sort of short-circuits when Sam's hand finds his cock. Oh well, who is he to argue if she wants to get him off again? Besides, it's not like he has to wash these sheets later. He rocks into her fist, moans a little when her other hand fondles his balls, and if he comes in an embarrassingly short amount of time, he'll blame it on the fact that he just woke up and hasn't had coffee yet. Sam kisses down his neck, finds a spot along his collarbone that makes him tense up, and then sucks his skin until he spills into her hand.

Sam throws the covers off unceremoniously and disappears into the bathroom to presumably get ready. Baird marvels at how quickly she can switch gears, but decides he likes that about her. He doesn't think he could stomach it if she got all lovey-dovey after sex. At least... not every time. Cuddling can be nice.

Baird opts just to wear his dress pants and shirt from his best man attire. He can't be bothered to go back to his own room to fish out something else. Sam re-emerges from the bathroom wearing leggings and a sweater, and even if her hair's still tangled from sleep and she isn't wearing any makeup, Baird can't help but pin her against the wall and kiss her until they're so late that they need to half-jog down to the hotel's restaurant.

Marcus, Anya, Cole, Hoffman and Bernie are already seated around a table by the time they arrive. Cole actually _wolf-whistles _when they enter, drawing looks from nearby diners. Baird feels his face heat up and he scowls, hoping it will discourage his friend. It doesn't, of course, but he has to try. Sam slips her hand into his and squeezes. Baird squeezes back because he doesn't want her to think he's embarrassed of her or anything; he's just doesn't appreciate being made the centre of attention in front of a bunch of strangers.

"About time," Marcus mumbles when they take their seats.

Baird blushes even harder, but decides that no comment is necessary. While he peruses the menu, he feels Sam's leg knock against his under the table. It's a quick touch, a teasing kick, but when she moves her leg back, he chases it and rests the edge of her shoe against her ankle. When he looks up, Sam's smiling softly at him. A warm, light feeling expands in his chest, and he has to resist the urge to grin like a lovesick idiot.

Whatever this ends up being, it's going to be awesome.


End file.
